


What John Doesn't Know (Won't Hurt Him)

by blueink3



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-01-28
Packaged: 2018-03-09 10:27:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3246257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueink3/pseuds/blueink3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five people who see Sherlock's scars before John Watson. But Sherlock's secrets were never something he could keep from his blogger for long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What John Doesn't Know (Won't Hurt Him)

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Чего Джон не знает (то ему не навредит)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5817862) by [Schwesterchen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schwesterchen/pseuds/Schwesterchen)



What John Doesn’t Know  
(won’t hurt him)

**_Mycroft_ **

The tattered remains of the piece of cloth that had once, he supposes, resembled a shirt cling to his damp skin, a combination of sweat and blood that soaks his overly long hair at the back of his neck.

He’s stiff everywhere, joints groaning in protestation at every vague turn the helicopter makes. He counts three broken ribs, a sprained ankle, and potentially a hairline fracture on the left side of his skull if the massively _pounding_ headache is anything to go by.

His brother sits as far away as the space allows, glaring out the window at some unseen foe lurking amongst the clouds. Mycroft’s reflection is visible in the inches of glass separating them from the angry-looking sky beyond and his expression might well be just as stormy.

“You got me out early.”

“Sherlock.”

“It was too soon.”

“A simple ‘thank you’ would suffice.” Mycroft’s overly put-upon sigh grates on Sherlock’s already strung-out nerves.

A bottle of water is pressed into his hand, but Mycroft’s steady gaze remains on the admittedly limited view. It’s been a while since they’ve been left alone like this, in cramped quarters with no means of distraction. Sherlock supposes he could deduce the name, rank, and marital woes of their pilot, but even that holds no joy for him now.

Raising the bottle to his chapped lips, he grunts in some semblance of thanks as the helicopter begins its choppy descent, sloshing water down the front of his sorry excuse for an outfit. Thankfully, London at least means a return to Savile Row.

Then again, London means a return to a great many things.

The landing skids touch down on a non-descript helipad after a much briefer ride than he had been expecting. He must have been closer to the border than initially anticipated – but he refuses to let the surprise register on his bruised features. It wouldn’t be right to give Mycroft the satisfaction.

“Come, brother mine,” the man in question intones dramatically and, with a roll of his eyes, Sherlock follows as gingerly as his dignity will allow.

He’s in pain. Far, far too much pain, yet he schools his features into something which he hopes resembles indifference. But Mycroft is looking at him with something akin to (oh god) _concern_ , and Sherlock knows he must be failing.

He’s taken down dimly lit corridors on a base which can only be somewhere in Hungary, if the distance of the helicopter ride is anything to go by. His bare feet are cold on the cement floor, but he walks as upright as his body can manage, keeping up with Mycroft and his damn, ever-present umbrella.

They enter a room and he’s instructed to peel his shirt off, which he does with little ease and much profanity. He wouldn’t think anything was amiss if not for the breath Mycroft sharply sucks in a moment later.

Oh. It must be worse than he originally thought. Funny, what the mind can compartmentalize. Sherlock should know that more than anyone, and yet he’s continually surprised.

Mycroft’s voice is steady when it next breaks the silence, but Sherlock knows him better than that.

“The more recent wounds should heal well with proper attention, but the older ones will scar.”

“Yes, thank you for that fascinating insight,” he grits out, teeth and tongue snapping over the consonants like a whip.

It’s all he can do to ignore the hurt expression on his brother’s face.

“They have good doctors here,” is Mycroft’s reply and Sherlock pretends not to notice him falter on the fourth word. After all, Sherlock already has a doctor.

Sherlock has a damn fine doctor.

In hindsight, he’s grateful that Mycroft doesn’t specifically mention John. In fact, thinking back on it, John Watson is absent from every single one of their initial (albeit brief) conversations.

He doesn’t think Mycroft is sensitive enough to omit the doctor from his musings on purpose; he can’t possibly know that the thought of John in that moment would surely have been enough to bring Sherlock to his knees.

But then again, Sherlock has always underestimated his brother’s capacity for sentiment.

_**Molly** _

“Sherlock Holmes! What did I tell you about leaving – ” The shout dies on Molly’s lips as she strides through the door, riding crop falling limp in her hand as she takes in the sight before her. “What on earth happened to you?”

Sherlock groans as he finishes unbuttoning his shirt, letting the bloodstained cloth fall to the floor of the morgue.

“Lost a bet.”

“With the mob?” is her quick retort and it earns her a smile. He likes this new version of her – the confidently feisty and ferociously loyal Molly Hooper. To whom he owes a very great deal.

“Close. The Russian ballet.”

She rolls her eyes and drops the riding crop on the table, pulling a pair of gloves from the box nearby and beckoning him closer with a threatening curl of her finger.

“Can’t send you home looking like you’ve been jumped in a back alley. Come on, then.”

“It’s really fine,” he huffs.

“It’s really not.”

They stand, squared off on either side of the metal table as blood slowly trickles down the side of his abdomen. Barely a scratch by his standards, but enough to draw the ire of Bart’s finest.

“Don’t make me call John to wrestle you into submission.”

Her word choice, though meant in total innocence, has his eyebrows hitting his hairline and his cheeks flushing scarlet.

“All right, then,” he groans, thanking some deity somewhere that his voice comes out steady, as he ducks his hot face down and away from her.

“I’m not as nice as John,” she threatens, raising a bottle of antiseptic.

“That’s not true.”

She spares him a genuine smile before squinting to get a closer look. “Not too deep. Shouldn’t need stitches.”

“So I said,” he hisses as she presses the alcohol-infused cloth to his side, wiping the excess blood away and cleaning the relatively superficial wound.

“Right as rain,” she announces, taping the last of the gauze to his side. “I’d tell you to come back and have it looked over for infection, but we both know you’ve got a doctor on retainer.”

Sparing her his patented roll of the eyes, he checks over her work, wincing only slightly as he pokes and prods at the now-covered wound. “Molly, as always, your humor barely stirs the mind.”

“Did a ballerina really best you?” she asks, completely ignoring the jibe she’s no doubt grown accustomed to by now. He groans as he turns to collect his ruined shirt from the floor, cursing the fact that it was one of his favorites.

“In my defense, she had a blade hidden in her pointe shoe.” And though it’s certainly not his most interesting case, he doesn’t expect the utter silence that follows. A knife-wielding sugar plum fairy deserves at least one follow up question, he would think.

“Sherlock,” she finally breathes, and it’s not his name that draws his attention, but rather the way it’s said – quiet and broken, as if any louder would shatter her to pieces.

He’s about to turn and ask what on earth has her so upset when he remembers; when he recalls the horrors that the skin of his back details. Tangible proof that his absence was by no means a holiday.

The shirt slides over his shoulders once more, aiding to hide one of his many secrets from the world.

“Molly – ” he begins, but she cuts him off.

“Does John know?”

He gapes for a moment at the unexpected question and utters the one word he’s tried to ban from his vocabulary on many an occasion. “What?”

She stares at him for a quiet moment with a glance far more calculating than he’s ever leveled at a suspect.

“No, he doesn’t, does he.” It’s not a question. “He must not because he’d tear this city – this country – apart to find the person responsible.”

He scoffs, but it gets stuck somewhere around his larynx. “I think you give John Watson’s affections a bit too much credit.”

“No, I don’t think I do.” The response is simple. Direct. Yet enough to render him absolutely speechless.

She tosses another packet of antibacterial gauze at him, which he only catches after bobbling it pathetically.

“Change that tonight,” she instructs before turning and snatching the riding crop from the table. “And this is confiscated until further notice.”

He stands in the middle of the mortuary, feeling far more off-kilter than he did when he entered.

**_Lestrade_ **

The general din of the pub is nearly more than he can bear, but John is smiling and he hasn’t seen John smile in far too long, so he presses his lips together and tries not to grunt when Lestrade claps a hand on his shoulder a bit too hard.

“All right?”

“Mmm.” He raises his glass to his lips, wincing at the slightly sour taste of the ale.

“Good to have the gang back together.” It’s a phrase Lestrade has repeated on more than one occasion, usually when he’s got a pint or two in him, but Sherlock doesn’t fault him for his saccharine tendencies.

Truth be told, he thinks, as he glances at John absolutely _failing_ at darts, it is kind of nice to have the gang back together.

“Look, I know you don’t really go in for this sort of thing,” Lestrade continues as he gestures at the chaos of his fellow Yarders around them, “but I know it means a lot to John. It’s… been awhile since he’s been ‘round.”

The invisible knife in his side that always seems to make its presence known when someone mentions John’s life while he was away twists violently.

“Well, I suppose I can suffer for one evening,” he drolly replies, but Lestrade absolutely beams.

“That’s the spirit.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but it contains none of its usual disdain. Unfortunately, despite his best intentions, it appears that he’s formed a bit of a soft spot for the detective inspector.

A cry rises up from the other side of the bar and Sherlock watches as John raises his arms in triumph, remaining darts gripped tight in his fist. The right side of his mouth quirks up into something he’ll never admit is a smile as John is handed another pint and promptly told to chug.

Sherlock can roughly hear him mutter something about being ‘too old for this shit,’ which draws a genuine chuckle out of him – a chuckle that Lestrade most definitely catches.

“Good to be back?”

“Obviously.”

“But I mean… you two are…” he trails off, making vague hand gestures that Sherlock supposes are meant to signify ‘okay,’ but he lets him flounder a bit more before replying.

“Yes, we’re…” he trails off and makes the same gesture, earning a ruder one in return for his efforts.

“I was being serious.” And something about his tone makes Sherlock bite back his inevitably offensive retort. Something about the look in Lestrade’s eyes as he watches John finish off his pint with nauseous victory makes Sherlock’s stomach turn. It’s haunted, for lack of a better word. Guilty. The DI tosses back the rest of his drink and stares at the foam lingering on the bottom. “You don’t know what it was like.”

Sherlock remains quiet, for once, sensing an unfinished thought and needing to know its ending.

“I had to take his gun from him.”

“What?” He’s been saying that far too much lately for his liking.

“His gun. I was… worried.”

“What, that he’d off himself?” He nearly scoffs at the idea, but the look of stone on Lestrade’s face silences any and all argument completely.

“You don’t know. You didn’t see.” _You weren’t there._

Six words that utterly kneecap him, their underlying accusation as plain as if it was written on the wall. He reaches out blindly for the drinks shelf behind him, hoping its screws are strong enough to hold the weight he makes it bear.

Lestrade seems to sense his distress and backtracks, placing a comforting hand on Sherlock’s arm. “Come on, none of that. It’s over and done with. You’re back. That’s all that matters.”

But it’s not. John is all that matters.

His inner turmoil is broken as a man trips, hurling the contents of his pint glass in their general direction and sopping the front of his shirt.

“Anderson! For Christ’s sake!” Lestrade attempts to brush off the bit of lager that ended up on his sleeve, but Sherlock had born the brunt of it. On purpose, no doubt. “Come on. We can probably dry this off in the gents.”

Idiot, Sherlock internally sneers as he passes the former forensics leader, catching John’s concerned eye across the room. He disdainfully gestures in Anderson’s direction and John understands with a sympathetic wince.

The bathroom is small for a pub of this size but large enough to maneuver around in.

“Come on, stick your shirt under here,” Lestrade says, hitting the button on the automatic hand dryer.

“People will talk,” Sherlock says, quirking an eyebrow, but Lestrade one ups him.

“Nah, they’re too busy gossiping about you and John.”

“Hilarious.”

“Kidding. Well -  _half_ -kidding.”

“I know you were,” he mutters, thankful that the dryer drowns out the retort. But he’d rather have a dry (though ruined) shirt than a wet one, so he undoes the buttons and thrusts it under the warm air as Lestrade washes the beer from his hands.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” the DI exclaims after a moment, and Sherlock turns toward the mirror, but Lestrade isn’t meeting his gaze. His eyes are locked on the patterns carved onto too-pale skin.

“Is that from…?”

“Serbia mostly,” he replies matter-of-factly. “Ukraine as well. Russia.”

Silence reigns for a few moments more, a stand off of sorts in the middle of the gents with nothing but the sounds of running water and a hand dryer for company. Eventually, even the dryer quiets, leaving Sherlock to pick out the questions flickering across Lestrade’s face.

“Does John know?” is the one he finally settles on and Sherlock bows his head, feeling ill. “I’ll take that as a ‘no.”

“You’re not the only one protecting him, you know.” He raises his head, lifting his chin somewhat defiantly, as if daring Lestrade to contradict this one simple, constant truth.

“I never doubted it,” is the DI’s quiet reply. “Not once.”

Sherlock nods and redresses, not caring that the material is not quite dry, before heading for the door.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade calls and he stops. “I never did say thank you.”

He turns, his eyebrows pulling together in confusion as Lestrade smiles softly.

“I know John Watson isn’t the only one under your protection.”

Oh. And Lestrade’s face is filled with such gratitude, such _sentiment_ , that Sherlock doesn’t quite know what to do with himself.

So he flees, Lestrade’s gentle chuckle chasing him out the door.

**_Mrs. Hudson_ **

“Yoo hoo!”

He grins despite himself as Mrs. Hudson pokes her head into the hallway, done up in her wedding finery already if the overwhelming scent of her perfume is anything to go by. And it usually is.

“Almost ready, dear?”

“For the seventh time, Mrs. Hudson, yes,” he calls from the bathroom, but he’s not. He’s nowhere near ready for any part of this day.

He stares into the mirror, ignoring the bags under his eyes from too many sleepless nights, and washes the last of the shaving cream from his face.

The aftershave in his hands tumbles to the floor with a resounding clang, and he glances at his fingers, wondering why on earth they’ve chosen to fail him now.

“Everything all right in there?”

“Fine,” he mutters distractedly as he picks up the bottle, thankfully still in one piece.

“Goodness gracious!” she calls again, voice much closer this time. “Are you not even dressed yet?”

Damn. She must have seen the suit still hanging on his wardrobe. He really must plan better if he’s going to lie through his teeth.

“Sherlock! John and the car are going to be here any minute!”

“Wrong, Mrs. Hudson,” he says as he whips the door open. “John and the car are going to be here in approximately eleven minutes. More than enough time for me to be battle-ready.”

“Battle-ready,” she laughs. “We’re hardly going to the front line, now.”

“Aren’t we?” He mutters, and luckily, she’s had just enough of her soothers to miss his decidedly humorless tone.

She slips by him to fuss with her hat in the bathroom mirror and he resolutely ignores the index cards sitting on the bedside table, waiting to be placed in his jacket pocket.

He’s already wearing his trousers, so he slips the dressing gown off and faces a moment’s indecision over which cufflinks to wear before a gasp of horror causes him to spin abruptly, knocking all of the choices to the ground.

“Mrs. Hudson, what on earth could possibly – ” but he stops himself, because of course. He’s been here before; far too many times in fact, comforting a friend through their realization of just what he spent the better part of two years doing.

“Oh Sherlock,” she warbles through the fingers pressed against her lips.

“Now, now, Mrs. Hudson,” he softly says as he quickly slips into his shirt, hiding all evidence. “None of that. You’ll ruin your makeup.”

“Oh sod my makeup!” she sobs, reaching out and gripping his forearms with more strength than she has any right to have.

“It’s okay,” he says, because what else can he? It wasn’t okay – not for a long time – but it is now. In its own way, he thinks, ignoring the reminder that he’s wearing this suit for his best friend’s wedding.

He reaches up and wipes a tear from her cheek with his thumb, offering as reassuring a smile as he’s capable. And she nods, his silent words of encouragement enough for her to straighten and dry her eyes.

“Come now. We’ve got,” he glances at his watch, “seven minutes until John arrives, give or take a few. He was a soldier – he’s always on time. Or early.”

She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes and he’s honestly not sure if it ever will again when she glances at him. There are some secrets she just wasn’t meant to know.

Unlike the others, she doesn’t ask if John knows.

Though whether that’s because she assumes he already does or she hopes to god he doesn’t is a distinction Sherlock has no desire to make.

_**Mary** _

There’s a steady beat somewhere to his left that he tries to cling to, but something heavy and persistent keeps pulling him back to unconsciousness.

“You don’t tell him.”

A voice he’s heard before. Light slicing through slotted shades.

“Sherlock?”

A face he knows. A face he trusts. A face he hates.

“You don’t tell John.”

He opens his eyes. Blinks. Blinks again. Breathes.

“Look at me and tell me you’re not going to tell him.”

Weight against the bed. A threat. Beeping. Always the beeping.

“Looks like you’ve already gotten a few scars on his behalf.”

Fingers against his skin. Pressing. Taunting.

“What’s one more?”

She also never asks if John knows. But Sherlock suspects that’s because she doesn’t entirely care.

_**John** _

Never has he hated the 17 steps of his flat more than he does in this moment.

“Easy, easy,” John murmurs, a steady constant at his side, bearing the brunt of his weight. “You really should have stayed in hospital at least one more day.”

“Absolutely not. I’ve had enough of the incompetence of the local A&E to last a lifetime, thank you very much,” he tartly replies, but even he can’t stop hissing in pain as his wound flares up again.

“All right, we’ll stop here for a moment.”

They’re only five steps from the top and Sherlock wants to be an arse about it, but he just doesn’t have the energy.

John shifts his arm around his waist, holding him a bit tighter against his hip as the full brunt of Sherlock’s exhaustion threatens to take them both down.

“Just a bit more, yeah?”

“Mmm.” He hopes John takes that as the acquiescence it is because even full words seem to be beyond him at the moment.

Eventually they reach the top amidst a plethora of colorful curses and John pauses in the doorway, asking if Sherlock wants the couch or the chair.

“Couch, I think,” he replies, stifling a groan as he’s gently lowered down. John’s hands are firm yet gentle – doctor’s hands – as he leans back against a veritable mountain of pillows.

“I’ve got to change that dressing now before you get too comfortable.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I just want to sleep,” he says through a yawn and John smiles.

“Which you can do right after I change your dressing.” John places his hands on his hips, doing a fair job of hiding the bone-deep weariness that’s plagued him ever his wife put a bullet in his best friend’s chest cavity. “If you’re good, you get another pain killer.”

“Tyrant.”

“I know,” he agrees before popping off to the bathroom and returning a moment later with a first aid kit and the prescription from the hospital.

Sherlock can read the emotional exhaustion in the sag of his shoulders and the defeat in his eyes. In the clenching of his jaw and the shaking of his left hand. John Watson is an open book to him, one which he knows by heart.

And yet, he’s a book still very much capable of surprises.

“Lean forward.”

Perhaps it’s the painkillers or the persistent ache that’s still there despite the frankly alarming amount of substances coursing through his veins. By this point, he should be prepared for the reactions people have when they’ve first seen the history carved into his back.

He should be, but he’s not. And nothing, he thinks, could have prepared him for John anyway.

Sherlock's first clue is the way he goes still behind him. Not still like a lazy Sunday afternoon, but still like the front line awaiting the order to charge. The kind of still John is all too familiar with.

Sherlock should say something, but he waits because John always does things in his own time, and unlike his psychosomatic limp, this is one situation that does not require the help of the world’s only consulting detective.

John sharply exhales the breath he’s been holding as his fingers reach out to gently trace the scar by his shoulder (Prague). The touch is light and it’s Sherlock’s turn to hold his breath as John moves on to the next one: a series of lines crisscrossing their way across his upper back (Moscow). The knife wound by his ribs is next (Budapest), followed closely by the burn marks over his kidneys (Minsk). They linger there, thumbs unconsciously rubbing circles over the angry marks, as if the merest swipe could heal them entirely.

“John.”

“Don’t.” It’s not angry or sharp. It’s anguished, and that one word causes Sherlock more pain any bullet ever could.

“John, look at me.”

“How could you not tell me?” John shifts behind him, dropping down into his line of sight as he kneels on the floor. “Some of these… Jesus, some of these are still freshly healed. How long – ” and realization seems to dawn as his face pales, yet he finishes the question anyway. “How long ago did you get these?”

“Some a couple of years. Some… more recently.”

“Jesus.” He drops his head on Sherlock’s knee and inhales a ragged breath. “I tackled you at the restaurant. I punched you and you… Christ, you still had broken ribs.”

“John, you couldn’t have known.”

“I should have known!” he yells and Sherlock spares a passing thought for Mrs. Hudson before focusing his attention, his entire being, on the man in front of him. “You’re my… You’re… I should have known.”

Sherlock reaches out and places his hand on John’s shoulder, squeezing as hard as his weakened body will allow.

“I didn’t want you to know,” is the quiet response and John’s sharp eyes find his, the silent question lingering there. “I had already caused you so much pain. No, wait, let me finish,” he insists, cutting off the protestation John had opened his mouth to give. “I jumped off a roof. I committed suicide and made you watch.” He bows his head and swallows, nearly choking when John places a hand on top of his own. “No amount of pain inflicted on me could ever compare to what I put you through.”

“Dammit, Sherlock, it’s not a contest.”

“John.” And perhaps it’s in the way he says the doctor’s name, but the man’s features soften, allowing Sherlock into the depths his eyes usually keep so guarded. “I have no regrets,” he finishes, taking John’s hand and running his finger over the war- and weather-beaten knuckles. Hands that know how to hurt and how to heal.

“No regrets?” John’s voice is soft. Hesitant. So unlike the man who stormed a drug den less than a week ago.

“Maybe just one,” he whispers, bringing John’s hand to his cracked lips and placing the lightest of kisses on skin whose patterns he had memorized long ago. “There are things I should say.” Preferably when he’s not doped up.

“They can wait.”

“There are things I should do.”

John smiles. “We will.”

It’s more than a promise and Sherlock holds tight to it in this sea of uncertainty.

John’s breath ghosts across his cheekbones, whispering a question Sherlock’s been waiting for months to hear. “May I come back home?”

He manages a smile, even as his heart beats an impossible rhythm against his ribcage. “John, even you know the stupidity of that question doesn’t warrant a response.”

They both chuckle, smiles slowly fading as their eyes meet and hold. John’s hand drifts up Sherlock’s arm, tracing the scar at his shoulder once more.

“Now we match,” he murmurs. _I love you._

Sherlock closes his eyes as John leans forward and presses a kiss to his forehead.

“Why do you think I went to Prague in the first place?” _I love you too._


End file.
